


Twenty Fourth

by apostategarbage



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, obligatory tent sharing fic, pre 'Revelations' Blackwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostategarbage/pseuds/apostategarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Dorian's birthday, and he wants to go home.</p><p>Originally posted on the kink meme (link to prompt in author's notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Fourth

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt & fill](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12606.html?thread=49909054#t49909054) if any one wants! 
> 
> Just double warning I'm using Pre-Revelations Blackwall, in case that's squicky for any body!

There’s definitely a word for it. Maybe two or three. Dorian can practically feel the rap of his old tutor’s cane across his knuckles because he can’t for the life of him remember what it’s called. 

Trevelyan directs the scouts a few feet away, snarling instructions as they attempt to set up a make shift shelter by binding a huge stretch of oilcloth to a set of trees – “I take it from your incessant fumbling you’d like to freeze to death?”

Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and the rain makes plinking noises against her armour. She sniffs, and makes a fair attempt of standing tall and proud, as if she is in her throne room rather than ankle deep in mud and water. 

“Fuck’s sake,” she snarls, as a scout drops his corner of the oilcloth for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

“Trevelyan?” Dorian begins. “You were educated, weren’t you? Literature, art, history, etcetera, etcetera.” She raises an eyebrow and nods. “Just, I have a question. What is it called, in a book or a play, when a character feels terrible, and the environment – the weather, particularly – echoes that. Let us say that I am a character in a book, and I feel miserable. I am exhausted and cold, and I would rather die than spend another minute in this forsaken forest. And to reflect that, some cruel, God-Author has decided it needs to shit it down for… Literary purposes. It has a name, but that name currently escapes me.”

Trevelyan thinks for a moment “Pathetic fallacy,” she says. 

“Ah, that’s the ticket.”

There’s a weak joke in there somewhere about pathetic phalluses, which Dorian is far too wet and cold and tired to put the effort into making. 

Blackwall and Sera are off collecting wood somewhere, which they will later make Dorian try to dry and ignite, staring and jeering till he manages it. He will manage it, of course, but that’s beside the point. Dorian should not be in a situation where he is forced to dry out wet wood with his magic or die of cold – nor should he have to set wards on every tent in sight. If there truly was a Maker, Dorian would not be out in the rain and the muck at all. He is an indoors person and has done nothing in his short life to deserve such punishment. 

He gives up standing and sits down in the dirt, watching the scouts fumble with the slippery oilcloth. Not for the first time, he misses home terribly. Even the rainwater is warm in Tevinter. Tropical storms that come every other day in the early evening, feed the plants and the earth, then stop before they outstay their welcome. 

This time last year, he’d have been at his party. Mother had spent ages dragging him around by his sleeve, parading him in front of distant relatives and suitors like a show pony, before he was allowed to start drinking (“Let everyone see how clever and handsome you are first, darling, _then_ you can make an embarrassment of yourself.”). Father had walked in to the room and Mother immediately handed Dorian his first drink, no doubt some sort of a play in their decades long pissing contest, and he was sent off to see his friends. Of course, Dorian only had about three real friends, and one of them was blight-sick and banned from parties. Once the courteous small talk with other sons and daughters of magisters had been made, Dorian had located Rilienus and proceed to follow him around like a sad dog for the majority of the evening. 

The rest of that birthday is still a blur, but Dorian had woken up with his head in a basin, a strange gentleman in his bed, and the sound of mother chattering to her house girl in the hallway, thanking the Maker that father had left early that morning. All in all, Dorian had chalked the evening up as a rousing success; probably one of his best birthdays. Got his end away, didn’t get shouted at, wasn’t sick on anything expensive – what more could a boy ask for?

Dorian suddenly becomes acutely aware of how wet his arse is, but he cannot bring himself to stand. 

* 

After what feels like decades of faffing about, the oilcloth is finally set up and the campsite is erected. Trevelyan has Dorian up on his feet, barking orders to make _this_ dry, and make _that_ repel water. He’s exhausted by the end of it, but the ground is dry, the tents are thoroughly protected and wards are set around the perimeter of the site. He even has time to dry off the scouts and Trevelyan, leaving her very cheerful (as cheerful as she gets, any way), and Dorian still looking like a drowned rat.

Trevelyan offers him a slap on the back and her hipflask by way of payment.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Inquisitor, but we have plenty of water, as far as I can see.” Apart from the rain, there is a clean stream near-by and supplies are plentiful.

“It isn’t water, Dorian,” she says. “Call it something to warm you up.”

Dorian opens the flask and smells whisky. “I hadn’t taken you for a drinker,” he says. 

“Just promise not to wake me up fighting.”

Ah, the tents. Of course. The previous night Dorian had kicked Blackwall up the arse and demanded he cease his infernal snoring: the ensuing fight had woken the entire camp.

“I don’t see why we can’t share. You’re a very quiet sleeper and you always smell fine,” Dorian huffs.

“Sera and Blackwall aren’t allowed to share because they stay up all night giggling and talking about girls.” Dorian laughs, but Trevelyan remains stone-faced. She assures him she is not joking.

“Of course you aren’t.” Nugs would likely take to the skies first. “Well, thank you very much, Inquisitor,” he says, and tucks the hipflask into one of the many soggy pockets of his robes. 

“No trouble. Dry off before you catch your death. If you’ll excuse me, I have some requisitions to discuss.”

Dorian listens idly as Trevelyan argues with the requisitions officer (something about bandits and a “stupid fucking amulet”), changes into some fresh, dry clothes (the linen shirt and trousers he sleeps in) and sets about drying his robe. His mind drifts back homeward as he does.

The cloth of his robe is a bloody shade of red, and not entirely dissimilar to the robe Dorian had worn on his last amicable outing with his father. His annual “Birthday treat”. As if the lavish parties and gifts weren’t enough, father _always_ took him out for a day, just the two of them – an evening as he’d gotten older. For his twelfth birthday, father had taken him to the Circle for a short lesson with a _real life Mortalitasi_ all the way from Nevarra. For his fourteenth, father brought Dorian to his first wine tasting, where Dorian had misunderstood that one was not actually supposed to _swallow_ the wine. Father remained in good humour, despite having to practically carry Dorian home, and it the anecdote had been something of a family favourite.

Dorian’s seventeenth birthday had been horrifying. Presumably an act of desperation after noticing Dorian’s flat-out lack of sexual interest in women, father had dropped him off at a monstrously expensive brothel. Dorian was left alone for the evening, with the assurance he was “Paid up”. Luckily, Dorian had been gifted the services of a particularly merciful young woman, who had (mid attempted-blowjob) noted his discomfort and offered to swap herself out for one of the many fine gentleman in the establishment. As mortifying as the experience of being dumped on the doorstep of a brothel by one’s own father had been – Dorian had ended up _thoroughly_ enjoying himself. 

Their relationship had grown increasingly tense over the years, and during that last birthday at home, Dorian had wanted nothing more than to please father. If they could have just _one_ pleasant evening together, then maybe things could go back to the way they were. Dorian had agonised over what to wear – _what in my wardrobe won’t make father’s lip curl_ \- and had even shaved off his moustache, which always seemed to set father’s eyes rolling.   
It had been Dorian’s twenty third birthday, not a particularly noteworthy one, but Dorian had high hopes pinned upon the evening. 

Father had ended up taking him on a trip to a ruined palace which lay just outside the city. It was easily one of the least expensive “treats” Dorian had ever gotten, but they had visited the ruin often when Dorian was a little boy. Father had told endless stories of the way the palace was built, the previous inhabitants, and how Gideon Pavus himself had been the one that had gotten the palace torn apart. A cautionary tale – one of how ideals and integrity must be upheld, but kept close to one’s own breast – that father retold, looking terribly old, all of a sudden. 

“There is a storm on the horizon, and this country is a knot of vipers,” he’d said. “You cannot simply shout it into submission with good intent and lofty ideals. There are gaps to wriggle into, loose tails to pull. You must cautious, and clever. Choose your friends carefully, mind your tongue and stay respectable.”

Dorian had assured father he would. 

That father seems like a different one to the man Dorian has now. One by one they’d watched the “respectable” fall to extremism and blood magic, and then Dorian saw his own father do the same. 

It takes almost setting his trousers on fire to drag him from his train of thought, and moments later Sera and Blackwall appear, brandishing armfuls of wood. Sera immediately launches into a well justified rant about how much she hates the woods, Blackwall listening to her with a wry smile, clearly biting back laughter. They dump their soaking wood on the floor (another bloody drying-off job for Dorian) and Blackwall slings a paternal arm around Sera, assuring her ‘Little Lord Magister’ will have them dry in no time at all. Sera shrugs off the arm and says she’d rather not risk getting her “tits set on fire”.

“I’m not going to – I _can_ hear you, you know that?”

“Wrong!” Sera chirps. “See, what you should have said is _Sera, you’ve not got any tits to set on fire,_ geddit? ‘Cause I’m all bony.”

“Very funny,” Dorian says. “Fine, be soaking if you want,” he carefully avoids saying the word _wet_ knowing the response it will likely elicit. Dorian shoots a disdainful look at Blackwall, who immediately scowls back. “I suppose _you_ are also too protective of your tits to want drying off?”

“One mistake and you’ll go up like fireworks with all that hair, won’t you, Beardy?” says Sera. Blackwall seems to consider it for a moment. He actually looks better for having been out in the rain – noticeably less grubby. A particularly fat drop of water plops into Blackwall’s eye and he sighs.

“So you just do hair, and that, don’t you?”

“Yes, it’s better to do clothes once you’re not wearing them,” Dorian says. Sera snorts. “When you’ve gotten changed, I mean. Less risk of me burning you by accident. Or on purpose.”

Blackwall rolls his eyes, but agrees and instructs Dorian to make it quick. He does, and with a puff of light and a blast of hot hair, Blackwall is dry, Sera immediately demanding to go next.

They bound off to search through their packs, and Dorian plops onto the floor and sets about dealing with the abandoned fire wood. His skin is tingling with the heat of his own magic but that won’t last long. This amount of fiddly work over such a short period of time, plus the day’s fighting and hiking, will leave him exhausted. Magical over exertion is not a pleasant feeling. Dorian has found himself shaking, freezing, starving and even vomiting after some particularly intense days. Other mages may treat this with lyrium, but Dorian finds it only makes him nauseous, and would rather recuperate naturally.

He is likely to be freezing his arse off in a matter of a few hours, and assisting in the fire should be his first priority. Never the less, he finds himself distracted - not by melancholy thoughts of home, but by Sera and Blackwall changing. Well – Blackwall changing. 

There’s this horrible part of Dorian’s brain (the part he suspects controls his penis) that speaks in a stupid voice and says “Oh you definitely _would_ though” whenever Blackwall appears in his line of sight and isn’t being overtly repulsive. Even when Blackwall _is_ being overtly repulsive, the silly voice coos “You _still_ would”, and Dorian is having an increasingly difficult time arguing with it.

Blackwall is common and rough. He’s too pale and too old and not at all Dorian’s usual type. But he is _big_ and strong and handsome (not the way Dorian is handsome, obviously, but in an earthy, stable-hand sort of way). He has been vile with Dorian in the past, but of late he has begun to soften. 

He compliments Dorian’s magic (he asked about Dorian’s hair, of all things) and his overall manner has been far more reasonable, over the last month or so. The attitude adjustment had come shortly after Dorian and the Inquisitor’s awful trip to meet father; he suspects pity may be at play, on Blackwall’s part but Dorian lacks the energy to be offended. One less person glaring is a relief, honestly. 

Blackwall dumps his soaked undershirt on the floor with his coat and his plate, and Dorian watches from the corner of his eye. He always finds himself looking at men surreptitiously, though he may not necessarily have to any more. Dorian wonders: does he enjoy an illicit aspect to his dalliances? Or has his upbringing simply left him incapable of viewing said dalliances as being anything but. It is too heavy a thought for the moment. 

Blackwall stretches (Dorian’s stupid brain voice goes _ooo_ ), the muscles of his broad back shifting, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles above his head before unbuckling his belt.

Dorian decides to get back to the firewood, lest he let his imagination run away with him, and be forced to hide an uninvited erection like some sort of foolish pubescent. For posterity’s sake, Dorian hits himself gently on the forehead with the wood in his hand, in the hope it shall drive any lingering inappropriate thoughts from his skull. He does, however, file away the mental image of a shirtless Blackwall loosening his belt for later use; Dorian is only human after all, despite popular belief. 

*

By nightfall, a fire has been lit, a reasonable dinner has been cooked and eaten, and Dorian is collapsed on the ground like a very handsome sack of potatoes. 

Trevelyan has let him off drying everyone’s clothes, so they hang limply by the fire on a makeshift rack.

Dorian drops off to sleep for an hour, or so, and is awoken by Trevelyan, poking him in the back with the toe of her boot, and complaining he’ll be up all night if he sleeps now. Dorian might have pointed out that he could have happily slept through the night if left be, and will _now_ struggle to sleep thanks to her disturbance – but Dorian values his health. Picking fights with the Inquisitor is the number one cause of death across southern Thedas, as far as Dorian can tell, and he does not wish to fall foul of such an easily avoidable fate.

There is a chill on the wind and Dorian begins to shake. He tries to summon a simple spell to warm himself up, but fails to produce anything adequate. His mana is drained, he is physically exhausted, and with his mind swirling with thoughts of home and his family and his blighted birthday, he is simply too _sad_ to summon the will to recuperate. Pathetic fallacy again – the wind howls, the rain slaps against the oilcloth and Dorian’s wards, and he shivers, curling his knees into his chest. 

At home, they had slave mages that did this kind of menial magic for them. Did the staff of the Pavus household ever feel like this? So tired from a day of heating baths and cleaning and keeping water shoving through pipes that they could barely keep themselves awake. Father would be ashamed if he could see Dorian now. He isn’t supposed to use his magic like a servant; he’s supposed to _rule_ not collapse with exhaustion after drying out poxy pieces of wood. 

He wants to go home. 

Well, he doesn’t, not really. In his heart he knows he doesn’t want to go home – he knows this is far too important. He knows home has lost its way, and Father has lost his way but right now he wishes he didn’t have to be here. He wishes Tevinter wasn’t the way it is; he wishes mother was here to chide his mood and shove a glass of wine in his hand; he wishes father… He wishes a lot of things about his father, then washes away the lump in his throat with a generous mouthful of Trevelyan’s whisky.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces. The scouts are set watching the perimeter of the camp, and Trevelyan, Blackwall and Sera are huddled at the opposite end of the fire.

“I was just going to ask if you wanted dealing in,” says Blackwall, waving Trevelyan’s increasingly battered pack of cards in the air.

“No thank you,” Dorian replies, stiffly. 

Sera snorts. “Aww, come on! Scared you’ll lose or something? Heard Josie properly cleared you out last time.”

“I’m not scared, I’m just not in the mood.”

“Well sor- _ry_ misery arse.”

With that, Dorian stalks over to his tent, trying not to look as if he’s throwing some sort of tantrum as he climbs inside. He has another glug of whisky (shuddering as it hits the back of his throat) and drops the flask into his pack. The bedrolls they have are good quality, thick enough you can barely feel the ground, and the blankets they use are usually warm; Dorian doubts they’ll do the trick tonight. Once he’s tucked in, he tosses his robe over himself, and makes a pathetic, final attempt at a spell to warm himself up. It fails, Dorian kicks at nothing under the blanket.

He hears footsteps. Trevelyan pokes her head through the tent flap. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. She must be in one of her odd, maternal moods. 

“I’m tired,” Dorian tells her. “I’ve been… Drying things all day, and I’m keeping wards up, I’m just. I’m exhausted, and I just want to be left alone.” 

She nods. “I’m going to leave some lyrium outside your tent. I know you’ve said you don’t like it, but it might help.” Dorian can’t quite see her face, but from her tone, he is half expecting her to kiss his forehead and tuck him in. Honestly, the thought isn’t completely unappealing, which is phenomenally pathetic.

 

*

Dorian wakes himself up shaking. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep, but he can hear Blackwall breathing steadily and there is no light nor smell from a campfire. Dorian tries to huddle in on himself, doesn’t even bother trying a spell. He can’t feel his fingers, or his toes, and all the hair on his legs and arms is stood on end. 

“Cold?” whispers Blackwall.

“Not at all! Whatever gave you that impression?” It is difficult to sound sufficiently cutting when one’s teeth are chattering. “It’s up keeping all the magic on the camp,” Dorian explains. “I’ve been using magic all day, over-exertion makes it difficult to retain body heat, among other things. And I don’t think the whisky helped.” 

Blackwall asks Dorian where the fuck he got whisky from in the middle of a forest and Dorian tells him it’s a secret. Dorian thinks, for a moment, that he is just going to be left to die of hypothermia in peace, when Blackwall grumbles, and begins shuffling about behind him. 

“I’m moving my bedroll over, and then you’re getting under my blanket,” Blackwall says. 

“Why on _earth_ would I be doing that?” There’s no heart in his protest at all, really. 

“The Inquisitor’s quite fond of you; she’ll have my guts for garters if I let you freeze to death.”

Blackwall drags his bedroll next to Dorian’s. Dorian doesn’t have the chance to get under Blackwall’s blanket, as he finds himself being practically dragged into Blackwall’s arms. There’s some rearranging of blankets and awkward positioning of limbs, but by the time they’re sorted, Dorian is on his side pressed flush against Blackwall’s chest with a meaty arm hooked around his waist. 

“Maker’s breath, Dorian, you’re freezing,” Blackwall mutters. His breath is hot on Dorian’s neck, and he is a furnace at Dorian’s back. Dorian clears his throat, and wills himself to stop shivering. There is a very pointed inch of space between Dorian’s arse and Blackwall’s crotch, and Dorian realises, for the first time, that they are the same height. They rarely stand so close together, and it turns out Blackwall is deceptively large. For all his prideful talk of the Wardens and the greater good, he carries himself like he has something to be ashamed of. He slouches, hunches, as if he’s trying to fold in on himself. Dorian is the opposite – back straight, chest puffed out as far as he can get it. Dorian is not a little man, not skinny, not by any means, but he has lost a noticeable amount of weight since coming south, and is now quite lean where he had been strapping.

He wonders if Blackwall is finding Dorian as surprisingly small as Dorian is finding him big. 

There comes an uncomfortable grunt over Dorian’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“Tired, freezing, obviously not,” Dorian snorts. Thought better now, admittedly. His toes and fingers are still numb, but the warmth is returning slowly to Dorian’s body. Though he would be reluctant to admit even to himself, Blackwall’s presence is a comfort. Not just the heat of him, but the weight, the smell. 

“I mean…” A puff of air hits the back of Dorian’s neck and makes him shudder. Blackwall seems to mistake it for a particularly violent cold-shiver and tugs him closer. “You seemed down, today. Not prickly and arsey like normal but… Troubled,” Blackwall speaks carefully. “I heard what happened with your father and I-”

“You thought you’d pry?” The complaint is weak. It’s hard to keep up pretences when Dorian is so exhausted and Blackwall is so _warm_.

“I know we haven’t always gotten along in the past, Dorian, but. For fuck’s sake, you were lying on the floor for hours all… Wet eyed and sorry for yourself – forgive me for being a bit concerned,” Blackwall half snaps. Coming from someone else, it does sound awfully dramatic. 

“I was thinking about home,” Dorian tells him. He isn’t sure why. 

Dorian is reminded faintly of being six years old – before his magic had manifested. It had been at a party of his father’s, another little boy had pushed him to the ground and said he’d never be magic if he wasn’t by now – that Dorian’s parents would have to give him to the chantry, or he’d have to live with the slaves. Dorian had cried for an hour – had cried so much his nanny had had to retrieve mother _and_ father from their guests. Dorian had expected to be in trouble, had cried harder, and father had just held him and rocked him until he was calm enough to talk. Mother had held his hand and cooed. Upon reflection, it was probably the only instance of them _parenting_ together Dorian had ever witnessed. 

The memory is strange. He feels it again in a flash, a childish sense that he is safe and loved, but it is gone as quickly as it comes. Blackwall is still at his back, breathing softly, holding tight.

“My parents. I miss them. Especially my father,” Dorian lets out a hollow laugh, because he does. He’s not sure exactly when it started, when father changed, but Dorian has missed him every day since. “We do something together every year on my birthday – today, that is. And I just… I want to go home. After everything that’s happened - isn’t that stupid?” he says. 

“A bit,” Blackwall tells him, not unkindly. “You came here because you wanted to live your own life – change things. Don’t forget that after one crap birthday.”

Dorian thanks him. He won’t forget, he isn’t going to.

When Blackwall speaks, Dorian can feel the buzz of his chest. “I’ve been unfair to you in the past. But, you’re a good boy, Dorian,” Blackwall says. Dorian inhales sharply again, a little surprised that he’s done it, but there it is. “A good man, I mean, not boy. Maker, never mind,” Blackwall mutters. 

The air feels thicker, all of a sudden. Blackwall is tense, that very deliberate gap between his crotch and Dorian’s arse seems to grow another half inch; Dorian wonders what’ll happen if he shuffles back and closes it. It would be easy to play off as an accident, easy for Blackwall to make it clear that nothing is going to happen. Dorian draws a breath and wriggles against Blackwall’s lap, pressing into him and waiting for a response.

A huff of air in Dorian’s ear has him trembling; Blackwall doesn’t rock in but he doesn’t move away, stiff behind Dorian (but not hard, noted with some disappointment). For a moment Dorian just wants the earth to crack open and swallow him. Is he really so _desperate_ for affection he’ll brazenly rub himself against a man he barely likes in the hope of getting… Dorian doesn’t even know. A fuck? A quick handjob, a gentle rejection, a punch in the face?

“Dorian…” Blackwall begins, weakly. “What are you doing?”

“I would appear to be making a pass at you,” Dorian replies. There’s no point in lying about it, is there? “Look, I… I’m just. You are very warm, and _big_ ,” and Blackwall shudders against him, a sigh that’s half-begrudging disturbs the hair at the back of Dorian’s neck. Blackwall nuzzles Dorian’s scalp, slips a hot hand beneath the hem of Dorian’s shirt and lies it flat against the gooseflesh of his stomach. Dorian whispers a yes, shoves back, feels Blackwall growing hard in the thin, cotton trousers he favours for sleep. 

“Big,” he says, a whisper of a chuckle, a press of his cock into Dorian’s arse for emphasis. He doesn’t seem to be one for teasing, and shoves his hand into Dorian’s trousers. Dorian gasps and squeaks, loud enough to give both of them pause. Two of Blackwall’s fingers slide into Dorian’s mouth. He closes his lips around them, flickers his tongue and sucks and Blackwall grunts, clumsily working Dorian’s dick with a large, rough hand. 

Dorian gives no particular care to hold off (lacks the willpower, as it stands) and is wriggling against Blackwall’s chest, practically chewing on his fingers, on the verge of coming in his trousers when Blackwall stills. He rubs his thumb along Dorian’s jaw with unexpected tenderness, before pulling his fingers away, and rolling Dorian onto his back. 

Blackwall kisses him. It’s clumsy again, but gentle in its way. Closed mouth, till Dorian sighs open, getting a lip full of beard and a surprisingly tentative tongue flickering against his. Blackwall is hard against Dorian’s thigh, huffing and clearly trying not to move too much, or rest his weight on Dorian.

“Warm enough?” Blackwall asks. The blankets have fallen back, Dorian has barely noticed. He nods, limply. Blackwall kisses his throat, nips lightly, and appears to be resting on one elbow, while his other hand gropes blindly at Dorian’s shirt. He skims up Dorian’s stomach, as if he expects to reach Dorian’s chest and be met with something other than muscle, bone and hair (force of habit on his part, Dorian supposes). Blackwall sucks at the join of Dorian’s neck and shoulder, and Dorian knots his hand into Blackwall’s hair moaning ever-so-softly. 

He asks Blackwall to fuck him. A whisper, a chorus, which has Blackwall shuddering but shaking his head.

“Not tonight,” he says. Dorian is tempted to complain, to demand. He thinks he needs it – wants it any way – the full weight of Blackwall pressing down on him, inside him, too big and painful; rough and so overwhelming there is no room for Dorian to think about home, or anything else for that matter. But there’s his answer, not tonight, probably for the best any way – Dorian doubts he has the energy to conjure a reasonable slick. 

Dorian claws at the front of Blackwall’s shirt, and greedily accepts another beardy kiss. Blackwall skims his fingers along the waistband of Dorian’s trousers, before tugging them down, Dorian lifting his hips to ease the process. 

It’s this odd, grabby affair from there out. Blackwall doesn’t take his cock out, but hovers over Dorian, rucking up his shirt to kiss at his stomach and the tops of his hips. It’s as if he wants to suck Dorian’s cock but isn’t quite brave enough, and Dorian suspects he may not have been with another man before. Still, he is confident, and Dorian is writhing, swearing foully and begging for _something_ , anything. Blackwall pulls Dorian’s trousers the rest of the way off, and easily manoeuvres Dorian’s legs so they are pressed together and slung over his shoulder. He pushes his hand between Dorian’s thighs (side of his hand skimming Dorian’s cock and balls as he does) apparently testing the feel of it. 

“You’ve done it like this before?” Blackwall mumbles, squeezing Dorian’s flesh and earning a groan that Dorian muffles with the back of his arm.

“Yes,” he hisses. “So, please.” 

Blackwall tugs his own trousers down and spits into his hand, slicking himself. It’s too dark for Dorian to watch properly, but he stares at the shape of Blackwall, tries to memorise what he can make out.

Dorian settles his ankles on Blackwall’s shoulders, allows his knees to be pressed back into his chest, as Blackwall slides between his thighs. 

He finishes quickly (not that Dorian particularly cares), cum spattering Dorian’s thighs and stomach. Dorian’s legs fall around Blackwall’s waist, and after having a moment to gather himself, Blackwall dives for Dorian’s mouth, cupping his face with both hands.

It’s a strange kiss – soft and reassuring – it’s a strange everything. Blackwall has been far too gentle and far too considerate, and it makes Dorian’s throat go tight and his stomach churn in a way it shouldn’t when he’s as close to coming as he is.

Blackwall, thankfully, mistakes the whine that escapes Dorian as one of impatience, and takes him in hand, finishing him off in a few firm, awkward strokes. Everything vanished for a moment, and then Blackwall is wiping his torso off with what feels like a silky handkerchief. He thanks Blackwall, quietly, and then waits for an irritated grunt, or an excuse to be made. But nothing like that comes. Blackwall awkwardly helps Dorian back into his trousers, then gathers the blankets up around them, and holds Dorian into his chest.

Neither of them says a word, but Dorian suspects at least one of them must have gone completely mad.

 

*

Come morning, the Sun is blaring through the thick cloth of the tent. Dorian’s ears ring when he opens his eyes. Blackwall is asleep, soundly, his back to Dorian, curled up in his own blanket. His nose whistles with each breath.

Dorian flushes and pulls on his boots, and scrambles from the tent as quickly as he can. The sun is offensively bright, still gold with the dawn. With his magic restored and the rain gone, the morning is almost pleasant. The air is brisk, and clean, fresh in the way it only is after heavy rain, but it is still cold, and Dorian has to stick his arm into his tent to retrieve his robe. He wraps it haphazardly around his shoulders.

Trevelyan is the only person awake: having rekindled the fire, she appears to be inspecting the pot of last night’s stew. Softer with her hair down, without her armour, she looks old. She gives Dorian a look, suspicious, and Dorian’s heart clenches. Does she know? Did she hear?

“You’re up early,” she says. Dorian shrugs. “Sleep well?” He shrugs again. “Just, I had you doing loads of magic yesterday. Solas was telling me about the erm… When you’re out of magic, the other week. How it can be hard to stay warm and sleep properly and stuff. Didn’t think about it till just now, would have given you extra blankets or something.”

“Blackwall made me share his blanket. He thought I was going to get hypothermia, and that you were going to shout at him,” Dorian says, with a sneer. His face feels warm. Trevelyan snorts and suggests Dorian go wash and fill up his water skein in the stream, so he does.

The stream is frigid, steal grey but pleasant against Dorian’s face. He sheds his shirt and splashes his body as quickly as he can manage, not bothering to dry off before tugging his clothing back on. He’s paranoid there’ll be a tell-tale bruise on his neck, or his shoulder. He fills his skein and takes a moment to himself by the water. He feels so foolish – all but crawling into Blackwall’s arms last night. He’d been a hair away from weeping like a muddled teenager, all gasping, clinging, needing. 

“Humiliating,” Dorian mumbles, to the stream. It babbles back, wordless, a little reassuring. 

Dorian feels the toe of a boot prodding his side – he expects to turn and see Trevelyan looming over him. 

Blackwall. The grey in his hair and his beard wink in the sun.

“Come to gloat?” asks Dorian. 

“No. Come to see if you’re alright, actually.” 

Dorian scoffs. “You caught me in a _very_ weak moment, and it shan’t happen again.” 

“I shouldn’t have… You were obviously troubled, and-”

“Vishante _kaffas_ , I’m a big boy, I don’t require coddling after a tumble,” Dorian snaps. He deliberately keeps his eyes on the stream, thankful that Blackwall has remained standing so he has an excuse not to look. “You obviously want me to set your mind at ease. I am _fine_. Embarrassed, but fine. And I would appreciate if you kept this between the two of us.” 

Dorian hears the murmur of agreement. “I’ll leave you be, then.” And he does. 

Dorian is suddenly, acutely aware that he and Blackwall shall be sharing a tent for at least another week. He groans, and kicks the water, achieving nothing but a wet boot.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for any comments, kudos, bookmarks etc!!!! you are the stars that light the night sky.


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